Breathe
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: Here he was in the middle of the Atlantic, drowning with air.


I'm back! And in the wrong fandom! But, alas, my interests have been caught by one brilliant, charismatic shipbuilder. Titanic fans know who I'm talking about. ;)

Disclaimer: Not mine not mine.

Spoilers and notes: Ummm...Titanic...?

401 was Titanic's ship number before she was formally named. I'd imagine Thomas wasn't too fond of the name and kept it as 401.

* * *

401 was many things. Harland & Wolff's pride. White Star's investment. The foreman's success. The sweat of three thousand. She was aglow in the dull scale of Belfast; a taste of what man could create, even as with a divided population. She was what consumed his life, propelled him through the dusty shops until he stood as her chief designer. A figment of what could be. What society should have.

She was never his.

He should have known from the beginning. Between William and Ismay, he should have known commercial was in mind. Fit for the public. For the traveling man and his wife. Sleek, modern. The height of luxury. And to fit Thomas's priorities. Safe. Trusting. Consistent. Somehow he doubted Ismay knew how to balance the two.

* * *

As is often needed with these large liners, meetings were held to hammer out the details. Where the steel should be milled, where the cabins would fit and how this would affect the everyday travel of a passenger. And, of course, the lifeboats.

Sometime during those meetings, he had shaken his head, wondering if Ismay had experience in shipbuilding. Of course, he never voiced his questions. He waited until it gnawed its way to the front of his mind, and he vented in the confines of his office. This time, he allowed himself a brief reprieve.

Ismay quickly displaced the idea of having enough room in the lifeboats for every passenger. Were they not confident in their men? Thomas understood it as a thinly veiled jab in his direction. They were his men. His response was barely dulled. _This yard isn't yours to break, Ismay._ Thomas excused himself soon after, brusquely treading the corridors to his office.

* * *

He had questioned, paced the drawing rooms. How he was to bring 401 home? It tore him apart. Between the lifeboats and the bulkheads, how was she to survive the voyage? How was 401 to fulfill its legacy, when it had seemingly inescapable flaws? He tucked it to the back of his mind when he finally made it home. Nellie needn't know his frustrations. Not when she was already wary of the ship. Not when he worried himself

The conclusion he came to, his head buried in his trembling hands, was a question. In the quiet of his study, his drawings carefully pinned on his desk, the scent of ink still sharp in his mind, he surrendered. His frame shook with the notion. How could he ever bring a ship home?

* * *

Titanic. Grand, magnificent. Entirely frivolous, if Thomas allowed himself a thought. The public may be stirred by glamour, but it burdened his soul, knowing their fate was in his hands. Something cold found its way in his warm demeanor. Not cowardice. Not fear. Something sharper and far more final. Recognition started in the shipbuilder's heart, chilling in its meaning.

Their lives were his.

Ismay pushed it as a positive. The success of Titanic would bring business to their company. Harland & Wolff would be famous, catapulted into the world's eyes. Somehow, Thomas couldn't believe him. Some part of him squared its shoulders. Some part of him reared for an invisible enemy, one without a name or identity.

* * *

Belfast tore itself apart in civil unrest. They surged forward. When he could, he brought up the lifeboats. Ismay pushed the idea of eliminating lifebelts. _What are you, Thomas? An idealist?_ To all, he responded honestly. _Worse yet, I'm a perfectionist._ They reached a compromise on safety: the minimum lifeboats required. Ismay prattled about the luxuries aboard, weaving near-truths of the ship. The title was cut cleanly from Ismay's tongue.

Unsinkable.

Thomas allowed himself a chuckle. Ismay was his superior, but the dimness of him! No ship was unsinkable. It was similar to branding a man immortal. Thomas was only too familiar with the foreboding awry chill that swept over him at the thought. Horrible, erring, and perverse. Some part of him broke at the thought.

* * *

Flawless. The voyage had been near flawless in its departure, despite slight problems. A towboat was nearly hit, but the passengers aboard Titanic hadn't a complaint. It had weighed heavy on his soul, though. A life that could have been lost was saved. Barely, but it was. It would have been his fault. Thomas attempted a clear mind, and walked the ship.

He kept his notebook in hand, to jot quick ideas in. Despite Ismay's thoughts, Titanic was far from perfect. Better ventilation could be utilized in the lower decks. Stairs were inconsistent.

Of course, the bulkheads should be addressed once they returned to Belfast. Part of him laughed. He was going to rebuild this ship, once he made it home, to his standards. Lifeboats for everyone aboard. Something he would be glad to place his family on.

* * *

It was a dream that tormented him for years. Inconsistent, chilling and entirely against the accepted mind. Every shipbuilder's terror. Wreck at sea.

He would wake in his bed, or, more often, at his desk, and his hands would tremble. His dark eyes would brighten, despite the state of them a moment before. His breathing would come in sharp pants, gasping for impossible air.

Perhaps it was this that pushed him for lifeboats. Not for him, never for him, but for the other passengers. The ones who hadn't the slightest notion of what *could* happen. Blissfully, dangerously unaware in what could-heaven forbid-be their end.

His mind was turbulent. Thomas sighed and grabbed for his notebook, before leaving the cabin. He supposed a midnight walk around never hurt anyone.

* * *

Music. The lilting, hearty tattoo hit him. He had taken notice of it when inspecting a flaw he had anticipated, the inward turn of a passenger's door. He'd followed it down the stairways, ignoring the inquiries of passengers. He knew that sound. Rarely he allowed himself the leisure to think about anything but the remaking of 401, but...oh, the idea.

It sent him back to Ireland, to where his heart was. Where his wife and daughter were. Whispering grass and bustling air. He could see them, clear as ever. Little Elba perched on Nellie as his wife mouthed her love to him. Their daughter's hand in hers as she mimicked a wave goodbye. It hurt him, but it was his life. It was his heart.

He managed his way down to steerage, where it originated. Some part of him knew it as wrong. A first class gentleman didn't take notice of the third class passengers. He knew it was a risk-a calculated risk, he thought-but a risk nonetheless. Thomas doubted Ismay would be pleased with the development.

He had been careful. Planned for this inadvertently. He's dressed to see the boiler rooms again. Nothing more than a working class man would wear. Hopefully, with any luck, he'd blend in.

Standing in the steerage commons, he was hardly noticed. He could distinctly hear the fiddles, the odd accordion. While the notes were uncouth, they were true, and Thomas found respect for the musicians.

It was there, in the back of his mind. He could have easily been in a pub in Belfast, instead of on Titanic. Many of the passengers reminded him of his men. Even if the room was far too hot, a direct contrast to the chilling air outside. Even if the dances were clumsy, an odd pattering of feet instead of calculated steps. In that moment, he imagined himself home.

* * *

The quiver had gone unnoticed. Even with Thomas's fine attention, the slight shake had barely crossed his mind until he noticed he could hear his own breathing. The engines. His heart leapt. Surely it couldn't be too serious. Any damage at sea was serious, he chastised. Life threatening...

The knock at the door startled him from his reverie. He answered calmly, despite the turbulent storm he felt. "Yes?" The man seemed startled, himself. Breathless. The air had brought a pink to his ears, something that alarmed Thomas in an innate, subtle way.

"The captain has asked for you, sir." Thomas nodded, a smile tilting his lips reassuringly.

"Anything amiss?" The man didn't respond. Thomas hesitated, listening to the silence that lay heavy on him.

"I'm obliged not to say, sir." The man briskly turned.

The cold started again in his chest. "I'm obliged to follow you, then."

* * *

He could hear the words echoing still. Shattering the silence. He knew, he knew so well, when the calculations first breached his mind what dread flitted into the hearts of men. An hour. Something sat, coiled at the back of his spine. Another itched in his throat, and clawed at his mind. _Wrong wrong wrong, _it cried. _Lord, help me, _he choked back. For a second, he wondered how long it would take. For another ship to find them. For some Morse to some vessel. How long, he mused, did one have before then? The answer sank his heart. Too long. There was no plausible answer other than that. "Titanic will flounder," he murmured.

Captain Smith shifted in the background. With a breath, he rolled the prints up, the paper sliding under his clammy skin.

* * *

Thomas stood, his hands bracing him on the mantle. The iron creaked. The water rustled. Slowly, though…gradually, if he allowed his mind to wander, he could hear the grass in the wind. In the shell of his ear, he could almost hear Elba's laugh. Nellie's smile. If he tried, he could almost blot out the intrusive guilt pouring over him, crashing into his thoughts. He could almost forget, almost not regret, allowing Ismay to use him like he did.

He leaned forward, resting his head on his arms. The heat was almost uncomfortable at this distance, but he welcomed it. For that second, he allowed himself to properly remember a man's words, ushered in abandon. _The fires of hell shall see us through._ His eyes closed. His mouth dry, the words stopped there, his tongue heavy. His bones ached. His thoughts rushed in recklessness, tearing through his carefully set plans.

In the end, he was here, in the middle of the Atlantic. There, with his creation breaking around him, swallowing him, he was drowning with a mouthful of air.


End file.
